It started out wet. Then it began to blow. And the wind was, of course, a March wind. A cleaning wind. My brother the wind. It blows the last of the Monarda seed into the bent-over grasses in the orchard where the seed will germinate and continue to march down the rows. The orchard has become a mass of Monarda. The bees are grateful. They love the Bee Balm. I planted a couple of Monarda plants years ago, not knowing what I had done. Now there are thousands of Monarda plants where once there were two or maybe just one. One seed was all it took.

I spent most of the day at Finley Lane, pruning and tying loops in the trees. The wind was cold. My hands were cold. But once I determined that I needed to wear more clothes, I was happy to be out in the March wind.

Some of the trees require no pruning at all. They are young and ready to grow, to spread, to explore. They don’t want (or need) to be held back. I admire them, nod, and let them go. Others are older and satisfied to be where they are, as they are. But they still like to breathe. They want air. “Give me a hair cut,” they whisper. So out comes the saw, and I cut. The cut is not to kill. The cut is good. I cut out the dead wood. I cut out the tangle just enough so we can climb and pick in October. Like cutting your hair before you can no longer see. Clean out the clutter in your brain or in the barn so you can find that cool old board you sawed in 1980.

I don’t count in the orchard. The watch and the device stay in the pocket (or even better in the truck). No need to watch the watch. Just move along tree to tree. Watch the sky, the geese, the Bald Eagle. Watch the hands. Watch the saw. This tree, then this tree, then this tree. Down row 5, up row 4 and down row 3. Then a shift in the light. Time to look at the watch. There is darkness up ahead. Time to go home and clean up. Company’s coming over.